


A Chance of Fate

by fhsa_archivist



Category: Merry Gentry - Laurell K Hamilton, The Professionals
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-17
Updated: 2005-03-17
Packaged: 2019-02-05 15:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12797484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: An AU, set in turn of the century Russia.





	A Chance of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

A mere 300 hundred feet separated two coaches pulled by the same southbound locomotive, yet the gulf that lay between the people reposing within them was as great as that between the Earth and its moon. Even though they sprang from the same rich, black earth, they were set apart from birth by differing cultures and heritages, tastes and traditions, goals and aspirations. Bound together as they were on that fragile lifeline of Russian railway track, when they reached the safety of journey's end they would go their diverse ways, ignorant and uncaring of each other. 

 

At least that was how it should have been and had been on a thousand similar journeys. But on that last December night of 1905, a freak circumstance of nature created a common ground on which two would meet. Of the some 150 passengers aboard, those two were still awake. 

 

One sat amidst the opulence of an Imperial Russian Army dining car. He was unaware of the splendour of his surroundings for they were of his everyday experience. His attention was commanded by the glimmering banks of snow illuminated briefly by the lights of the train. Unnoticed on the table beside him stood a bottle of Chateau Signac, a fine red wine form which a glass, still untouched, had been poured. Also unnoticed, a respectful distance away, was the dining car attendant, who had fallen asleep waiting for the gentleman to leave so he could clear the last table. 

 

His honour, Captain Andrei Alexandrovich Bodin, officer of the ancient Cavalier Guards Regiment and owner of one of the largest estates in the Western Ukraine, was very much awake. He watched the miles sweep away, bringing him ever closer to his beloved "Astradnoe", his real - and only - home. Just as important to him, these same miles were taking him away from the trivialities and intrigues of St. Petersburg, a city growing more uneasy with each passing day. For a whole month Andrei could set aside all thoughts of his commitments and responsibilities in the sheer enjoyment of home. It was this anticipation that denied him sleep. 

 

How very different from the other restless passenger who kept the night watch on the train. Located behind the carriages of the officers and the accompanying soldiers, behind even the horseboxes, was the boxcar full of prisoners. 

 

The prisoners were an odd assortment of people. All had been duly sentenced by the medieval workings of Russian law. There were several murders, numerous thieves and a small contingent of political agitators, mostly students. One of the agitators sat huddled in a corner and was kept awake, not by the cold or the noise or the stench, but by a bitter mixture of anger and despair. 

 

Two years before he had been the celebrated new discovery of the St. Petersburg art circle. He was the winner of one of the prestigious scholarships awarded by the Academy of Fine Arts. His work was sought after, as was he. But a society willing to flirt with the new art styles of Western Europe is not necessarily one ready for the new political ideals associated with them. 

 

Whatever the cause, Raymond Ilych Doylov had discovered that talent was no protection against malicious intent and his naively expressed opinions had inevitably led him to the Prosecutor's Office and a place in a Ukrainian labour camp. 

 

The abrupt jarring that occurred when, the locomotive's brakes were applied, snapped both men out of their private worlds and roused the rest of the train. All onboard instinctively held on as the grinding of the metal gears fought to slow the train's forward momentum. The captain watched the front of the train as it curved right into a bend, sparks flying in great waves when the engineer applied the secondary brakes, releasing steam pressure as he did so. The engine's whistle reached a frantic pitch. In the coaches men were thrown around and a babble of voices arose. The dining car attendant tried unsuccessfully to salvage some of the china as the train at last came to a wrenching halt. 

 

Captain Bodin stood and eyed distastefully the stain where the red wine had splashed the immaculate white of his dress uniform tunic. He lifted the table napkin to dab at it then abandoned it as he noticed activity outside. Stopping briefly at his compartment to get his greatcoat and gloves - it was many degrees below zero outside - he made his way to the carriage door. Jumping the remaining distance from the bottom of the carriage steps he landed softly, sinking into several inches of fresh snow. Up ahead rough voices shouted commands. 

 

The area was bright with the headlights of the train but his attention was momentarily drawn beyond the pool of light, to the darkness of the forest. It lay less than fifty yards from the track, the edges of each sturdy pine crystallised with a layer of glittering frost. Above, a cold, white moon and its entourage of stars shone uninhibited by cloud. The stillness of the place stood firm against this temporary noisy intrusion 

 

Andrei moved forward, determined to discover the problem and hasten its resolution. He'd been separated long enough from his home. 

 

Nearing the front of the train he saw, illuminated in the engine's headlight, the huge bank of snow and fallen trees that had halted their journey. A good fifteen feet high and of unknown depth; they had been fortunate to survive the encounter. The front metalwork of the engine was deeply embedded in the drift. The engine driver noticed his presence and broke off haranguing his fireman to greet the distinguished guest. 

 

"Your Honour, all is well ... " he assured the captain. "No harm has come to the engine. When the dispatcher at Mozhaisk realises we are overdue he will send out a plough and a gang of - " 

 

"How long?" Bodin asked impatiently. 

 

"No more than a day, Your Honour." 

 

"A day?" Bodin bristled. That was one day too many for him. "Are there tools onboard?" 

 

"Yes, Your Honour, of course ... " 

 

"Break them out," He turned back towards the train. The engineer, long drilled in obedience to his superiors, scurried away to do as he was bid. 

 

Two sleepy figures emerged from the officer's carriage, still suffering from the after-effects of the New Year celebrations. Forced to mark the occasion on a train journey, they had nonetheless enjoyed a sumptuous meal and consumed copious amounts of champagne. The whole thing had degenerated into a childish muddle with each one trying to outdo his brother officers in extravagance, Bodin had seen it all many times before in the Officer's Mess and, not willing to join in, remained in the dining car when the others moved into the salon. He was on board this train only because it was going in the right direction. Towards Astradnoe. 

 

"What's happened, sir?" Anatole Szecpansky asked. 

 

"The track is blocked. I'm going to order out the guard to clear it." His tone implied he had no further time for conversation, and he left them to enter the troopers' compartment. 

Szecpansky looked at his companion. 

 

"Whatever he's got in the country must be fascinating." 

 

"I'm betting it's not what, but who," Nikolai Bakunin said thoughtfully. 

 

"What or who, we're not likely to find out. I hear he doesn't even allow his family to visit the place." 

 

"Mmmm ... let's go in, it's cold." 

 

After five hours the disgruntled troopers began to make an impression on the mountain of snow. The sun was making a grudging appearance as they broke for breakfast. Bodin sipped at his coffee and leaned back against a signal post. One of the troopers passed carrying buckets filled with water towards the rear of the train. Two others armed themselves and followed him. Andrei watched as they opened the door of the final boxcar. Urgent hands reached out to take the buckets, spilling some of the water as it was pulled inside. Bodin called the sergeant over to him. 

 

"Are there prisoners on this train?" 

 

The man came to attention. "Yes, sir." 

 

"Get them out. They can begin on the other side." 

 

"But, sir ... " 

 

"Do it, Sergeant." 

 

He set down the cup and strode off towards the boxcar. 

 

"Open it up," Bodin ordered the guards. 

 

The heavy door slammed back on its metal runners releasing an unpleasant, pungent smell. The captain took an involuntary step backwards. Inside all was darkness. 

 

"Out!" The sergeant barked. 

 

At first, Andrei could only sense the movement, as a dishevelled line of weary men and women slowly piled out. Disoriented by the sudden plunge into light, they covered their eyes and, stumbling, fell from the wagon floor. 

 

Andrei turned from the white faces and demanded of the sergeant, "How long since they were fed?" 

 

"They were given food at the beginning of the journey." 

 

That was a long time ago, he thought grimly. 

 

"Feed them." He walked away not needing to see the order carried out and wanting to escape from this cargo of human debris. They blankly watched him go, too miserable and hungry to enjoy the freedom and fresh air and fell ravenously upon the food when it arrived. 

 

 

The work progressed much faster with the extra hands. Soon the snow bank was reduced sufficiently to attempt forcing the locomotive through under its own power. The engineer built up steam and set a slow forward pace. The troopers and prisoners huddled together in groups against the deepening cold to view the breakthrough. Even some of the officers ventured out to watch the final moments of the proceedings. 

 

The locomotive roared into controlled life, moving a few inches at a time. Steam billowed from escape valves to hang as clouds in the frosty air. As the train broke through the final obstruction to stand clear on the other side, a ragged cheer went up from the troopers. Already they were contemplating a quick return to their warm compartment and the ration of spirits the sergeant had promised them. The prisoners were herded together in preparation for the march back to the boxcar. 

 

There was a scuffle and a shout and Andrei turned quickly to see a prisoner slam hard into one of the guards, almost come to grief himself, and then take off at break neck speed towards the embankment and the forest. 

 

Out of pure instinct, when the rifle of the trooper standing beside him was raised, Bodin swung at it as the soldier fired. He deflected the fatal aim, but something in the path of the running man brought him down into a crazy tumble over the edge of the embankment and he disappeared from sight. 

 

The crack of the gunshot echoed away and silence returned. No one moved. The guards returned their attention to the now terrified prisoners, coming down hard on them to prevent any further insubordination. 

 

The captain regarded the place where the figure had fallen. There was no movement beyond it. He barely caught the sergeant's muttered comment, "I don't know where the poor bastard thought he was going anyway." 

 

It was with these words that the futility of the action struck Bodin. Where had he been going? They were fifty miles away from the nearest village. The temperature never rose above freezing point and the forest was full of wolves. The man must be either desperate or insane. 

 

Whatever he was, Bodin needed to see him. Morbid curiosity perhaps, but not to be resisted. When two of the troopers moved off towards the embankment to look for the prisoner, he accompanied them at a distance. As they reached the mark in the snow where he had slipped over the edge of the embankment, they turned back towards him. 

 

"He's dead, sir," one of them offered. 

 

Bodin pushed past them and stepped over the edge. It was difficult to make his way down for the embankment was steep and the snow drifted, but eventually he drew level with the crumpled body. He took off his thick glove and located the pulse point at the jugular. It beat steady and strong. He noted the injury to the man's face. He must have hit a tree or rock as he fell. Blood covered his forehead. 

 

"He's alive. You two, get down here and help," he ordered. 

 

The three of them managed to drag the unconscious man up the snowy slope. Bodin moved ahead as the troopers carried him back to the train. The sergeant met them half way, and ordered the prisoner returned to the boxcar. 

 

The order was countermanded. 

 

"Bring him to the baggage car." 

 

Bodin's look sent the sergeant about his business. Once inside the baggage car the captain cleared a space and removed his greatcoat, spreading it out on the floor. 

 

"Put him down here and find the medical orderly." 

 

Throwing his gloves aside he knelt down to look at the wound. Not a life-threatening injury; the most noticeable damage was a ragged cut just below the hairline. Looking at the bloody, ashen face, however, Bodin considered that to be the least of the man's problems. 

 

"He's going into shock, bring a blanket and get that stove lit," he ordered, aware of the disapproval on the sergeant's face. 

 

"Sergeant, return to your duties." 

 

"But, sir ... " he began, then gave up and contented himself with warning the troopers to stay alert as he left. 

 

Bodin was loath to touch the wound so he took out his handkerchief and began to clean away the blood streaks. The orderly arrived just as the train resumed its journey. He set about his work in a no-nonsense fashion and Bodin felt free to withdraw after charging him with responsibility for the prisoner and promising to return to inspect his work. 

 

When he reached his compartment Andrei uncharacteristically did not remove his uniform, merely opened the tunic buttons and stretched out on the bed. He fell asleep at once into a recurrent dream of being shot and falling into an endless pit of white, soft snow. 

 

The prisoner Doylov woke to a crushing wave of pain. At least he was warm and able to move freely, but apart from that his mind was foggy. As he tried to sit up the pain doubled and he reached out blindly for something to hold onto. His hands were taken in a firm grasp; opening his eyes he discovered he was supported, not by a guard or a fellow prisoner, but by an officer of the Imperial Army who eased him into a sitting position. 

 

"Drink this," the officer commanded. 

 

A small silver cup belonging to a field canteen was held to his lips and he drank deeply of rich, warm cognac. The strong liquor winded him and he coughed. 

"Take it easy," the voice instructed, not unkindly. 

 

"Thanks," Doylov murmured as he finished another long swallow. 

 

"Lie back again." He was gently helped into the warmth of the coat and covered with a blanket. Beside him a stove glowed brightly and it, together with the brandy, seemed to ease the pain. 

 

"You've got a nasty cut on your head. The orderly has done all he can. You were lucky the fall didn't kill you." 

 

Quite suddenly the fog cleared and Doylov remembered the events of the previous few hours. 

 

"That was a damned stupid thing to do," the officer chided, gently. 

 

"Yes, well I must be stupid," Doylov replied bitterly, "look at the situation I find myself in." 

 

"You're educated?" 

 

"Educated yes, clever no," he answered, examining the man before him. 

 

The severely cut black hair framed a face that went beyond handsome, but the eyes were cold and the mouth was hard. He was dressed in a perfectly cut tunic; the insignia was that of a captain in a cavalry regiment Tight fitting riding breeches were caught into highly polished black boots. 

 

Doylov was confused. Why was this man helping him? Suddenly he became suspicious. He'd learned this much at least, that people were governed only by self-interest. The wariness showing in his face was redoubled when the officer dismissed the two troopers. 

 

"I'm Captain Bodin," he introduced himself and sat down on a trunk that had been pulled out from the stack of luggage, picking up a book as he did so. 

 

"This must be yours, one of the troopers found it." 

 

It was almost snatched as Bodin held it forward. A man of few possessions now, this was important to Raymond Doylov and he looked from it to his benefactor. 

 

"You thought I'd stolen it, didn't you?" 

 

"I thought it more than likely," the man admitted. "The sketches are excellent, not that I know a great deal about these things," he qualified. "R. D. Your initials?" 

 

"Raymond Doylov." 

 

As he expected the name meant nothing to the army officer. 

 

"I've exhibited only once in St. Petersburg, but they said I had promise." 

 

He sighed deeply. 

 

"I suppose this is all that remains of my work. Not a good idea to admit you own a canvas painted by a political agitator." 

 

"Political," the captain nodded. "I should have guessed." 

 

"You're not going to ask questions I hope. I spent three memorable days with the St. Petersburg police, the bastards. They know more about me than I do." 

 

Doylov looked at the canteen and the officer obliged him. After a long drink, he said, "I'm sure it's all comprehensively filed away on record." 

 

"You talked?" 

 

"Continuously, for three days. It's amazing the effect of a well-placed boot can have on encouraging conversation," he told the officer, finishing the drink. 

 

"Not that I actually said very much. There's nothing much to say when all you've done is express an opinion. But then that was the really stupid thing to do." 

 

"That depends on one's opinions," Bodin countered. 

 

"I agree, it wouldn't do to spread really perverted views such as hoping that one day all your fellow citizens would be treated like human beings, now would it?" 

 

"I'm a soldier, not a ... " 

 

"Politician," Doylov finished the statement for him. "A surprisingly common response." 

 

He looked into the blue eyes. This one was probably no different, but he tried again. 

 

"Whatever you are, even a soldier, surely you have an opinion. Can't you see what's going on around you?" he questioned. "Don't you care?" 

 

The man stood up abruptly. Doylov sighed again. 

 

"You're bored," he said, "and I'm tired. Let's leave it at that." 

 

The train halted as they reached the next water stop and the troopers returned. 

"Orders from the sergeant, Sir, we're to return the prisoner." 

 

"He's not ready ... " 

 

"Forget it, I'm ready to go back." 

 

Doylov began to haul himself to his feet. Bodin moved to his side, lifting him up. As the wounded man steadied himself against the nausea and vertigo, Andrei looked into the green eyes. He could not avoid being impressed by the way the man was dealing with the desperate situation he was in. 

 

Suddenly another response raced through him, one that was quite out of place here and he stepped back abruptly, looking down at his coat where it lay on the floor. Impulsively he picked it up and held it out to Doylov. 

 

"Take it, it's cold." 

 

Doylov looked at the sable lined greatcoat. "If I take that back there, I'll end up with my throat cut. I'll take the blanket though." 

"Of course." 

 

Doylov reached down for it and then, just as impulsively, took out his sketchbook. 

 

"Here, keep it." He held it out. "If you want it." 

 

"I'd be honoured." Bodin too the book. " Good lu..." he broke off realising the stupidity of what he'd been about to say. "Good bye," he amended. 

 

"Much more appropriate," the artist replied, than laughed a little desperately. 

The troopers stepped forward and he held up his hands placatingly. Wrapping the blanket more closely about himself he stepped out of the carriage. Bodin's gaze rested on the open doorway for a few moments before he returned to his compartment and handed the coat to his valet with instructions to have it cleaned. 

 

Bodin was awake late into the night, the swaying and chugging of the train no longer a comfort to him. He longed for the wearisome journey to be at an end so he could put it from his mind in the soothing balm of Astradnoe. But the cautious driver had reduced speed, thus prolonging the torture. 

 

His thoughts returned to the stranger whose life he had saved. He'd read somewhere that among native peoples, saving a life meant you became responsible for it. It was a fanciful notion. He turned on the lamp and reached for the sketchbook. For the third time he opened it, not leafing through this time, but systematically studying each page. 

 

The drawings were good and he found the subjects intrigued him. Looking at them it was as if someone had opened up a vista of St. Petersburg life. The weather-beaten old flower-seller, the conductor at a band concert, a clutch of pretty girls in muslin and ribbons. People were the artist's forte; he had a gift for portraiture. 

 

He closed the book with a snap. It would be wrong to allow such talent to waste away in a prison camp, whatever the man's crimes. Besides Doylov was no longer an anonymous prisoner, he was a person. Maybe he was responsible for the man; after all, to have bled to death in the snow would have been an easy way out if what Bodin had heard about the labour camps was true. He lifted out a sheet of paper and began to write. 

 

 

ooooOO000Oooooo 

 

"I cannot advise you strongly enough against this course of action, Your Highness," the sharp featured little lawyer insisted. "This man may be talented but he is a convicted felon. I have been honoured to serve your family, Sir, for many years and you must realise I have only your best interests at heart. To act as guarantor for this criminal's good behaviour can bring little advantage and may, in fact, compromise your own position." 

 

Prince Andrei Alexandrovich Bodin smiled indulgently at the little man, who seemed to derive more satisfaction from the Bodin family honour than he did himself. 

 

"Vaska," the Prince reasoned, "the commitment has already been made. I only need you to formalise the papers." 

 

"Very well, Your Highness," he sighed, gathering up the documents, sure that his noble client could not have fully read the account of this Doylov's life. "As you wish." 

 

He bowed formally and withdrew. 

 

Bodin returned to his contemplation of the cherry trees lining the drive of his St. Petersburg townhouse. Today was the first one on which there was even a hint of incipient spring. He'd noticed when out exercising his horse that the harsh edge had gone off the wind and the first swifts had braved the long journey north. 

 

The entrance of the butler interrupted his reverie. A normally unflappable individual, whose face wore an unaccustomed flush. 

 

"Your Highness - " he broke off. 

 

Bodin raised an enquiring eyebrow. 

 

"Sir, a 'person' has arrived to see you." 

 

"Who is it?" 

 

"I am unacquainted with the name, Sir, but he is accompanied by two prison guards." 

 

"He's here?" Bodin let his annoyance be known. "The inefficient fools! Don't they read instructions? He was to be brought to ... never mind. Where is he?" 

"In the stable yard, Sir." 

 

"Have him brought into the kitchen. I'll come down." 

 

"To the kitchen?" The tone was one verging on horror. 

 

"Yes, to the kitchen. I do know where it is. I even know what function it fulfils." He turned away, attempting to get his anger in check and also to rein in a sudden anticipation that flared through him. 

 

He heard the servant leave, his agitated footsteps resounding across the marble hallway. It was strange, but it was only then that Bodin realised this was the first time he'd ever heard them. The man had obviously dedicated a lifetime to being unobtrusive. 

 

Bodin followed him with deliberation. It was a long time since he'd been in this part of the house. As a child it had been his favourite part. Marya, then the cook, had had a soft spot for him because his healthy appetite did justice to her superb cooking. But then he'd grown up and his father no longer approved of his son and heir being found flour-covered and sticky around the mouth in the presence of the servants and the kitchen had been declared off limits. 

 

He pushed away the happy memories evoked by the sights and smells from beneath stairs and concentrated on the business at hand. 

 

Raymond Doylov stood in the centre of the huge kitchen amid the gleaming pots and china. His hands were bound, his eyes lowered. Bodin's gaze was drawn to the man's right cheek. Where his cheekbone should have been a strange lump stood out in stark relief under the sunken eyes. He had no time to dwell on the obviously new deformity, for the overall appearance of the man chilled his blood. 

 

What in God's name ha they done to him? The auburn curls were gone, shaved to almost nothing, although enough remained to show a premature grey at the temples. The face was gaunt and ashen. Not that Doylov had been well the only other time he'd seen him, but this was incredible. He seemed to have aged ten years, in three months. The grey prison serge clothes hanging on his body appeared several sizes too large. The man was a physical wreck and will power seemed to be the only thing keeping him on his feet. 

 

"Release him," Bodin ordered as he descended the remaining few steps. When he heard the click of the key in the lock he again looked at his new charge. The man's eyes stayed lowered. Bodin looked past him to the knot of kitchen maids huddled together in horrified curiosity. 

 

"Bring food, plenty of food." 

 

The cook bobbed a curtsey and started issuing commands. 

 

Bodin walked to the guard and asked, "Do I need to sign an authorisation?" 

 

"Prince Andrei?" 

 

"Yes," 

 

"It won't be necessary to sign anything. We were instructed to hand him over into your custody." 

 

That explained the misunderstanding of his instructions. It seemed he had to take personal charge of this so-called menace to society; not that he looked particularly menacing just then. Rather it looked like a strong breeze would be enough to blow him away. 

 

"You have done so," the Prince told the guard. "My butler will see you are taken care of." 

 

He watched with relief as the two guards were ushered out. Thanking the cook for the abundance of food spread out on the table, he requested that Mr. Doylov and he be left alone. He sat in a chair and pushed another out, towards his 'guest'. 

 

"For pity's sake, sit down, before you fall down." 

 

The man did not move, but spoke in a cracked voice. 

 

"What do you want of me?" 

 

"Eat ... " 

 

"Answer me." 

 

"Nothing, though I suppose a little gratitude wouldn't go amiss." 

 

He admonished himself even as he spoke the words. But the man's reaction to them was not what he expected. 

 

"If I wasn't so bloody hungry," Doylov told him around a mouthful of chicken, "I might argue the point with you." 

 

So Bodin had a pragmatist on his hands. For that he was grateful. He feared a sensitive, artistic temperament could be tiresome. 

 

He watched and enjoyed the relish with which the man attacked the food. Far too soon Doylov began to run out of steam; his desire for food was greater than his ability to stomach it. Three months of poor nutrition had taken its toll on the man. 

 

Bodin stood and called for the butler. He instructed the man to prepare a bath and find suitable clothing for his guest. 

 

"How long since you slept?" he asked Doylov. 

 

"Two, no - three days." 

 

"Time you did then. Sergei will find you a bed in the servants' quarters. When you're rested we'll talk." 

 

He walked to the staircase, but turned back. 

 

"You won't ... " 

 

"I was made aware of the terms of my release, I won't run. Where would I go? Even here?" 

 

He returned to the last of his food, playing with it listlessly, as Bodin issued the orders and left. 

 

 

Raymond fell into a dead sleep that lasted a full day and half of the next. When he wakened he felt that a little of his strength had returned and, dressing in the clothes left out for him, he descended the servants' staircase into the kitchen. The cook, upon seeing him enter, instructed the kitchen maid to prepare him breakfast, and much to his surprise, he found he was ravenous. 

 

When he had finished his breakfast, he was drawn out through the open kitchen door into the sunshine of the stable yard. No one questioned or even appeared to notice his leaving the house. It seemed strange after three months when every movement was supervised and restricted. There was a bustle of activity all around him. Like all great houses this one had a large staff ,and with the coming of the spring, they were all busily engaged in making good the ravages of the winter. He sat for a long time, allowing the normality of this place to seep into him, and then began to investigate it. 

 

Rounding a corner, he found himself at the entrance to the stable loose boxes. He wandered in, enjoying the sound of the dozen or so beasts housed there. They were just settling down to their second feed of the day. He walked past the stalls, inspecting each occupant until he came to the fifth, in which he found not only a magnificent grey, but also Bodin. The officer was watching the animal being shod by the master farrier and it was some minutes before he noticed Doylov's presence. When he did, he gave the rest of his instructions to the man and left the stable indicating that Doylov should follow. 

 

"You look much recovered," he observed. 

 

Doylov nodded in agreement. 

 

The Prince strode out through the stable yard towards the extensive lawns at the front of the house. Doylov had been too ill or exhausted on the previous occasions he had seen his benefactor to really observe the man with his artist's eye and he now took the opportunity of scrutinising him. 

 

He was younger than Doylov, though not by much. He was about the same height but was more heavily built. His features could be described as strikingly handsome and his manner could only be described as cool. 

 

Doylov caught up with him as he stepped onto the drive, its gravel drawn out in symmetrical patterns. 

 

They walked in silence for some minutes before Doylov spoke up. 

 

"Sir, I need to know where I stand." 

 

"Didn't they explain the nature of the parole to you?" 

 

"I am released into your custody for the period of one year. If at the end of that time I have proved by good behaviour my remission, my sentence will be set aside." 

 

"That is exactly the case." 

 

"It doesn't tell me why." 

Bodin stifled irritation. Why did this man insist on asking a question he had no answer to himself? Still he had to say something. 

 

"After the incident on the train I made enquiries of an acquaintance in the Prosecutor General's office regarding your case. I was not happy with what I found. Your trial was patently unfair, the sentence unjust." 

 

Noting the flash of anger in Doylov's eyes, the Prince was greatly relieved that two months in a labour camp had done little to dent the man's natural impertinence. 

 

"I'm sorry, Your Highness, you're not responsible. You've shown me only kindness and for that I thank you ..." 

 

Bodin halted him. "I'm not asking for your gratitude. I became aware of your situation and as I was in a position to do something about it, I did so. Nothing more, nothing less." 

 

The harshness of his voice clearly indicated to Doylov that the man was uncomfortable with the whole subject so he remained silent. 

 

"I have a question for you," the Prince said as they resumed walking. "Why did you run, that night on the train?" 

 

Doylov thought for a few minutes. 

 

"There's no clear answer to that. I think it was mostly panic. I'd never before experienced the fear of being totally at the mercy of other people. I don't recommend it. I don't recommend a stay in a labour camp either. You don't have to worry. I will not break the parole. I don't care to sample the hospitality of the Russian penal system again." 

 

"That effective, is it?" 

 

"The only truly effective system in the entire country, I should think," volunteered Doylov, his steps faltering. 

 

Bodin became aware of the greyness creeping over his companion's face. "You're still unwell, we'll talk again when your strength returns. Rest for now." He guided both their steps back towards the house and, upon reaching, it instructed one of the footmen to see Doylov to his room. Before turning away he asked, "Do you have everything you need?" 

 

"Yes, but I ... " 

 

"What is it?" 

 

"I really missed holding a pencil or a brush." 

 

"Of course. Give Sergei a list of whatever you require and it will be purchased today." 

 

With that he was gone, before gratitude could be expressed. 

 

oo000O000ooo 

 

 

Even though his spirit was willing it was many days before Doylov was able to make use of the range of artists' materials that were brought to him. At first the very effort of dressing and moving about the servants' quarters and grounds was sufficient to exhaust him. He reluctantly admitted to himself that he would have survived only a short time longer in the labour camp, gently reared as he was. Bodin had, in effect, saved his life twice over. 

 

Doylov found it difficult to clarify his feelings towards the man. Although he freely admitted the debt, it chaffed him that it had been incurred, since he had done nothing wrong. 

 

Whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation at least he was somewhere where he was well cared for and shown common courtesy. And he was being allowed, even encouraged, to draw and paint. He began with sketches of the small army of servants who worked in the great house. They had made him welcome in their home and he acknowledged this by presenting each one with his or her likeness in charcoal. 

 

Gradually he felt his confidence and strength return. He began to join in with the laughter and earthy conversations of the servants' dinner table, which he had chosen instead of a solitary meal in his room. When he had asked, a south facing attic room was cleared out for him to use as a studio and he began to paint for an hour or two each day. 

 

He had seen and heard nothing of Bodin for well over a week when Sergei casually mentioned that the master was expected to return from his duty tour the following day. He could sense the increase in activity throughout the house as the appointed hour approached and he withdrew from the bustle to his studio, leaving his work only to watch the carriage draw up and its occupant step out. 

It was well after dinner when Sergei knocked at his door to tell him the master wished to speak with him in the library. 

 

Raymond followed him and was led for the first time into the main part of the house. They stopped before double doors of highly polished mahogany and Sergei tapped softly at the wood, then opened the door and moved inside. 

 

Raymond had only a brief impression of the sumptuous room into which he stepped before his gaze was caught by the sight of Bodin. Although he had dined alone, the Prince had dressed formally in a black dinner suit and high, white starched collar. He stood very tall and straight at the side of a large fireplace, his face reflecting the flickering glow of the flames. His mind was obviously far away and Raymond had to cough gently to call him back. The startled blue eyes settled on him, showing a momentary disorientation that passed quickly. 

 

"Good evening, Your Highness." 

 

"Good evening," the Prince answered, registering the improvement in his charge's appearance. "We didn't finish our conversation the last time we spoke." His tone was very business-like. "If you are willing to accept it, I can offer you employment that will ensure you the means to return to your profession at the end of the probation year, while allowing me to honour a personal commitment." 

"Tell me," Raymond prompted. 

 

Bodin looked embarrassed and turned away to pour brandy into two glasses. "It is a vain, foolish tradition but when I marry I must commission a portrait of myself and one of my wife for the family collection. I've seen some of your work and I wish to offer you the commission." 

 

"I'd be glad to accept," Raymond said without hesitation and he took the proffered brandy glass. "You are to be married then?" 

 

"I have the honour to be engaged to Countess Xenia Herzen. We will be married next spring. My mother and sister are visiting her and her family in Moscow at present." 

 

"Congratulations." 

 

"Thank you." 

 

"How will you explain my presence to your family?" 

 

"Leave that to me. I may be head of the household but such matters do require finesse." 

 

For the first time Doylov was treated to a smile from the Prince, who then began to question him. "What about your own family? Do you wish to contact them?" 

 

"No," Doylov answered abruptly, then relented. "Well, perhaps a brief message to say I am well. I have caused my parents too much heartache for anything more." 

 

Bodin deliberately changed the subject. "Would you like to see the family portraits?" 

 

"Yes, very much," Doylov agreed. 

 

He followed the Prince out into the rococo splendour of the marble entrance hall and up the sweeping staircase to the gallery that ran the east-west length of the house. The heavy brocade drapes on the twenty large sash windows that let the morning light flood into the room, had been drawn and the candles in the five crystal chandeliers had been lit in preparation for the visit. The magnificence of the room did not compare, however, to the small collection of superb canvasses by Cezanne and Seurat, exhibited in between the most recent of the family portraits with a deftness of touch that was quite delightful. 

The Prince, observing how Raymond's attention was caught, offered an explanation. 

 

"They are my mother's one indulgence. She is a devoted patron of the arts and an avid collector. She is familiar with your work and will be pleased to hear you have e accepted the commission." 

 

Raymond looked at the fine canvasses. 

 

"I am honoured." 

 

The Prince moved to stand before a large painting of a young man and woman. She was dressed in the traditional red and silver clothes of a Russian bride. 

"These are my parents," Bodin said. 

 

Doylov really did not need to be told this since the Prince favoured both parents and had his mother's dark colouring. Like the son, the father was a handsome man and from what the servants said he had been a kind and just one. The pair made a fine couple, even allowing for the conformist style of the artist, which couldn't hide the warmth of both personalities. 

 

"Is this the style you choose?" Raymond asked, a little desperately. 

 

"I know little of art, other than to say what I like or dislike. I will leave the matter to you." 

 

For that Raymond breathed a sigh of relief. "When do you wish to begin?" He asked. 

 

"There is yet time, let me know when you are ready. I must warn you, though, I have little patience for sittings ... I will leave you to peruse the collection. The room is open to you at any time." 

 

And with that he left the artist eagerly enjoying the treasure before him. 

 

 

For the next several weeks, as spring began in earnest, they saw little of each other. Doylov was loath to admit it but he was severely weakened by his experience, the mental damage taking the longest to repair. Despite this, he began preliminary drawings of Bodin for the portrait, always from memory. This he enjoyed for the man was a fine subject. The collection of these drawings grew steadily. One showed the Prince as an army captain, standing in a snowy landscape with a dark forest beyond. Another took as its theme the horse lover and showed him caring for the large grey, dappled stallion. Both seemed inappropriate somehow as a representation of a Russian aristocrat. It was going to be difficult to find the correct form. 

 

At the end of the month of April Princess Bodin and her daughter arrived home from their visit in Moscow. The excitement of the Prince's return was nothing to that generated by the homecoming of his mother and sister. 

 

Again Doylov stayed well out of it, not even venturing out to the garden, so the invitation to dine with the family came as a total surprise. A not altogether welcome one, if he was truthful, considering the ambiguity of his situation. Sergei brought him the note. In it, Bodin requested his presence at dinner and asked that he be ready by 8.30pm. 

 

The servant also brought a set of dress clothes, as well as all the gossip from Moscow supplied by Her Highness' maid. Apparently they had returned home early because the young Princess wished to celebrate her 'name day' among her friends. Raymond paid little heed to the servant's prattle as he read the Prince's note a second time. 

 

Having exhausted all his available gossip, the servant left the artist in peace and Raymond spent an hour soaking in a hot bath to shed the pervasive smell of linseed oil. In good time he dressed in the rich and finely cut suit. It was a perfect fit. He felt good in the clothes and, when he checked his appearance in the full-length mirror, he realised he looked good as well. His hair had grown to an acceptable length and his healthy appetite had brought back the colour and fullness to his face. 

 

At the appointed time he was ushered into the library by the disdainful butler, who clearly did not approve of him. Bodin was delighted by how much better he looked and told him so. He silenced Raymond's misgivings about the invitation to dinner. 

 

"I have told you my mother knows and admires your work. She is anxious to meet you. The other matter need not be spoken of." 

 

"If you're sure," Raymond said, "I have some preliminary sketches ... " 

 

"Already?" I shall look forward to seeing them. Shall we go in?" 

 

Doylov nodded assent and followed his host to the salon. 

 

"Maman, Natasha, may I present Monsieur Raymond Ilych Doylov." 

 

The artist bowed. "Your Highness, I am honoured." 

 

The older woman chuckled. "Come now Monsieur Doylov, has my son not told you that I am a good Frenchwoman and do not hold with such nonsense? I honour the title my husband gave me in society, in my own home I am simply 'Madame'." She held out her hand. "I am pleased to meet the man who has produced such fine work. I hope I can persuade you to paint some canvasses for me?" 

 

"Of course, Madame," he answered, a little bewildered. It seemed the entire family was determined to make him feel under no obligation. 

 

"Good, we shall discuss it at leisure. If you will escort Tasha we will go into dinner. I intend to monopolise my son's company as I see so little of him, Monsieur." 

 

He noted Bodin's guilty look as he offered his arm to the young woman who took it readily, eyes alive with excitement. 

 

"Monsieur Doylov, you must tell me all about your attempted escape and the labour camp ... " 

 

"Tasha," her mother and brother warned in unison. 

 

Doylov was very surprised she should know of the circumstances that had brought him into their lives. He assured them that he was in no way offended, and catching the warning look in Bodin's eye, spent the rest of the evening painting a fanciful and romantic picture of his experiences, proving as eloquent with words as he was with brush and oils. 

 

As he took his leave of the family he noted the look of gratitude on the brother's face for his sensitivity, not that it eased his conscience any. He sat late into the night completing a pencil drawing of the young lady as a gift for her name day celebration. She was a smaller and finer version of her brother, with the same dark, shinning hair and frosty blue eyes. He gave the portrait a mature look, which he knew would please her and wrapped it in a scrap of colour drawing paper. 

 

In the morning he asked Sergei to see it was placed among the Princess's other gifts and then disappeared into the city for the rest of the day. He intended to avoid any possible contact with the stream of visitors expected by such a household celebrating a name day. 

 

Bodin had almost drifted off to sleep when he heard the footsteps on the backstairs. He checked his pocket watch in the moonlight and was surprised to see it was after midnight. Leaving the casement window he passed through the door into the servants' wing and followed the retreating figure up to the third floor. The door was closed when he reached it and he tapped on it quietly. 

 

"Yes?" 

 

"It's Bodin, may I speak with you?" 

 

Doylov opened the door and stood aside. "Of course, come in." 

 

The Prince entered the small room, littered with sketches of all sizes and subjects, and stood awkwardly in the centre of it. 

 

"I want to thank you for the way you dealt with Tasha last evening. I'm selfish but I don't want her peace of mind disturbed." 

 

"I don't think that's selfish. I wouldn't want my family to know the truth either," he answered. 

 

"Tasha will thank you for the drawing herself. I believe it is the gift she enjoyed the most." 

 

"It was a pleasure." Doylov noted with regret that Bodin had turned back towards the door. 

 

The Prince paused as he took hold of the door handle. "As far as Tasha's concerned you will continue to exercise discretion, I trust. She's very young and vulnerable and from her conversation you made quite an impression on her last night." 

 

The sardonic laugh made him look round sharply. 

 

"I see your friend at the Prosecutor's Office didn't give you the full case history, did he?" 

 

"What do you mean?" 

 

"Well, I'm not only perverted in the political sense. Didn't he tell you that I enjoy other men? Your sister's quite safe. I thought you knew." 

 

It was clear from the look on Bodin's face that he had not known. The shock was also plain. Doylov continued bitterly. "I can see this is more difficult to accept than my political persuasion. I have doubly compromised you. I will be ready to leave in the morning." 

 

"No." 

 

He was surprised by the vehemence of the Prince's declaration. 

 

"No, that will not be necessary, we made an agreement. I will honour it if you are prepared to do so." He looked the artist straight in the eye. 

 

"I am glad to honour it." 

 

"That's settled then. No more shall be said of it. I leave in the morning for field manoeuvres." 

 

With that he was gone. 

 

Doylov sat down on the bed, utterly drained. Even after years of self-honesty, admitting the truth to another caused him anguish. Again, he felt the loneliness of his isolation sweep over him. He was always on the outside in this society, apart from these happy families. Only in the artists' quarter could he find some kind of half-hearted acceptance. Maybe occasionally the comfort of a fellow traveller, until the danger overcame the need. 

 

He refused to let his mind go any further down that road. To inflict his problems on Bodin would be a poor way to repay his kindness. Doylov had to admit he had already pushed it to the limit. He settled himself in preparation for a long and sleepless night.


End file.
